


The Hollow Man

by ayyremi



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst, Clay Spenser Whump, F/M, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayyremi/pseuds/ayyremi
Summary: Hands roughly shove him down to his knees on the sand. As pain flares in his broken leg, Clay understands that this is it - this is the end."This is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper."
Comments: 19
Kudos: 63





	The Hollow Man

Hands roughly shove him down to his knees on the sand in front of a camera. As pain flares in his broken leg, Clay understands that this is it - this is the end. 

There’s a poem he started thinking about the last time he woke up hanging from the ceiling by the manacles on his wrists, the unbearable strain on his shoulders piercing through the fading haze of unconsciousness. 

_Those who have crossed_ _  
__With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom_ _  
__Remember us-if at all-not as lost_ _  
__Violent souls, but only_ _  
__As the hollow men_ _  
__The stuffed men._

It was one of his grandfather’s favourites, and at just 11, Clay couldn’t begin to grasp the meaning. But on several occasions since joining the military, often at his lowest moments, he’s found his mind drifting to the memory of his grandfather in a rickety rocking chair, softly reading the poem out loud while Clay played quietly nearby.

“It’s about losing the fight,” he would say when Clay asked what it was about.

“But why do you like it so much if it’s about losing?”

And his grandfather would chuckle, “because it reminds us why we fight.”

His grandfather had fought in Vietnam, never spoke about it beyond a few vague references over the years. Clay didn’t recognize it until he was older, but his grandfather carried a lot of scars - physical and emotional. He wished he had asked. He wished they had talked about it. He wonders what stories died with the man.

One of the last times they spoke in person was shortly before Clay flew to the States for boot camp. The night before, Clay couldn’t sleep. When he went to the kitchen for some water, he found his grandfather sitting in his rocking chair. Clay recognized the well-worn poetry book in his hands. 

That night, he told Clay, “there are many ways to die. I’ve seen men keep breathing, their heart keep beating, but you can tell by the look in their eyes that they’ve died. It doesn’t matter how many more decades they live. I never want that for you.”

The next morning in the airport, his grandmother had cupped his face between her hands, looked up to his eyes and stated with full conviction, “I’ve already lost a daughter. I will not lose my grandson.” 

As much as he misses them, he’s glad they’re not alive now to receive the casualty notification. To fret over their only grandchild’s torture and impending gruesome murder. 

_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams_ _  
__In death's dream kingdom_ _  
__These do not appear:_ _  
__There, the eyes are_ _  
__Sunlight on a broken column_ _  
__There, is a tree swinging_ _  
__And voices are_ _  
__In the wind's singing_ _  
__More distant and more solemn_ _  
__Than a fading star._

 _Let me be no nearer_ _  
__In death's dream kingdom_

Clay had long since come to terms with the possibility of dying in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, still young but a pipe-hitter to the end - with the possibility that, one day, it may be _his_ body that flies home in a flag-draped box.

Clay thought he was at peace with dying, but now that the end is actually here, he feels like he couldn’t be further from peace. 

It’s just that, this can’t be how it’s supposed to end. (Clay tried not to acknowledge the part of him that always hoped it would be as a brittle and accomplished old man, a peaceful end he could meet with no regrets.) 

He hadn’t expected it to feel so unfair. There’s still so much that he wants to do, to experience, to accomplish, and it feels like he wasn’t given enough time. And going out like this, it feels so meaningless. Dying for the sake of being killed. No bang, no blaze of glory.

(But then he remembers Brian, so close to graduating from Green Team when a faulty cord ended everything. Maybe as he was plummeting to the earth knowing all hope was lost, Brian was also struck by the unfairness of it all. And Clay got more time than Brian. Clay got to make DEVGRU. Clay got to fall in love. He can almost hear Brian’s teasing laugh - _oh get fucked, you think_ you _got it bad, Spenser?_ )

He hadn’t expected to feel so alone. He’s had his fair share of close calls over the years and he’d always taken them in stride, stared down the odds and embraced the possibility that he had reached the end of the line - but each time, he’d always had his team, whether in his ear or even just in the vicinity. His clearest memories of lying on the street in Manila after getting blown up was the team surrounding him, voices piercing through the pain and shock to reassure him _you’re going to be okay, we’re all right here, just stay awake_. Now, he’s entirely alone, far from anyone or anywhere he knows. And while he’s grateful that none of his brothers have to live what he did (that if it had to be someone, it was him and not one of them), Clay desperately wishes someone was here with him. He wants someone to say goodbye to, someone to tell him that it’s going to be okay. 

He doesn’t want his body to rot somewhere in this patch of desert for the rest of time, in a makeshift graveyard of the strangers that were victims before him and would be victims after him. He doesn’t want his funeral to be for an empty coffin. Clay doesn’t want to die, but he really doesn’t want to die _alone_.

 _Is it like this_ _  
__In death's other kingdom_ _  
__Waking alone_ _  
__At the hour when we are_ _  
__Trembling with tenderness_ _  
__Lips that would kiss_ _  
__Form prayers to broken stone._

He hadn’t expected to feel so disgraced. Clay is a tier one operator, has trained his entire adult life to be the best warrior. And now at the end, he’s on his knees, bound and helpless, at the mercy of the same people he had spent so long fighting, and being recorded for the worst kind of terrorist infomercial - and he can only imagine what they’ll do to his body after he dies. Thinking about all the people who are going to witness his last moments on earth is enough motivation to force himself to be as stoic as possible, even as these thoughts make him want to heave. Because for all the overwhelming terror, Clay Spenser is a Navy SEAL.

He really hadn’t expected to feel this scared. But he keeps telling himself that he’s already survived worse than he ever could have imagined, and it’s finally almost over. Maybe this isn’t the ending he had hoped for when he’d first woken up in a dark, damp cell, but maybe that’s okay (maybe that’s even for the better, because Clay doesn’t know how he would have come out on the other side, how this would have changed him, and what it would have done to the people who love him to have to live with the broken shell of the person they once knew). Maybe there are some things people aren’t meant to survive. 

And the only way out is through.

(And maybe he also feels just a little bit relieved, because he’s so tired and he’s been hurting for so long.) 

_Not that final meeting_ _  
__In the twilight kingdom_

When Tareq starts talking to the camera, shouting righteous propaganda, Clay tunes him out (which is something he’s gotten good at doing).

He wonders if Stella will see this. If Naima will call her in time before this makes it to the news. He wonders if some small part of her will feel vindicated because this was the exact inevitability she had predicted, had run away from, and Clay had just been too naïve to see it back then.

Clay almost wants to laugh, because he really thought they would make it this time. And how cruel is it for the universe to bring them back together again, to dangle _forever_ in front of them, only to snatch it away so violently before they even got to make things official. Clay had almost started the conversation a handful of times before backing out at the last minute, had recognized Stella doing the same a few times. He thought he would have more time, but now he’s left with the bitter taste of words unsaid. It was ridiculous because they both knew how the other felt. But maybe there was just more weight in crossing that bridge this time because both also knew that this would be it – there would be no more breaks or breaking up, because they were in it for good now.

Clay really had believed he would marry her, and the weight of everything that will never happen feels crushing. He will never get to propose (with a real ring on one knee and not on morphine), will never get to walk down the aisle. He will never get to start his own family and erase the legacy of his own parents. He’s overwhelmed by all the moments he’ll never have. Getting a house, painting a nursery, holding a baby. Holding Stella’s hand at a team family BBQ when they’re all older and talking about the good old days, and Jason’s kids are adults, Ray’s kids are teenagers, and it’s Clay’s kids running around the yard. Maybe Sonny and Lisa’s too, if they ever figure it out.

And it isn’t just his own life he’s going to miss out on. It’s standing with the rest of his team beside Brock at his and Ashley’s wedding this summer that he had RSVP’d to last month. It’s getting drunk with Trent after his next shotgun wedding – and the messy divorce that would inevitably follow shortly after (it’s finding out whether Trent ever does settle down for good or who wins the pool on how many divorces Trent ends up with). It’s helping Sonny and Lisa resolve their will-they-won’t-they. It’s getting advice from Ray and Naima. It’s reassuring Jason that his legacy is in good hands. It’s getting to be an uncle to his teammates’ kids as they grow up.

He wonders how Naima and Ray will explain it to Jameelah and RJ, how Jason will explain it to Emma and Mikey. If any of the kids will somehow come across this video one day when they’re grown (he hopes they never do) and remember the man they had called Uncle Clay (RJ probably won’t have any memory of all the times Clay chased him around Ray’s yard, won’t remember that he was more attached to Clay than any of his other uncles).

It hurts to think about how this will affect his brothers, because the only thing Clay can think of that would be worse than what he had to live through would be the terror of knowing this was happening to one of his brothers and he was powerless to stop it. He hopes they don’t feel guilty, hopes they never have to know how bad it got for him. He hopes the grief and the anger isn’t overwhelming, hopes they can move past this and keep kicking ass. He hopes they know how much they meant to him, how grateful Clay is for the family they gave him, how sorry he is that he doesn’t get a chance to tell them this. And selfishly, Clay hopes they talk about him when they’re all sitting around drinking together, hopes that they smile at memories of him. He hopes that they don’t forget him. 

Clay hadn’t expected the regret to feel so bitter. 

_The eyes are not here_ _  
__There are no eyes here_ _  
__In this valley of dying stars_ _  
__In this hollow valley_ _  
__This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms_

 _In this last of meeting places_ _  
__We grope together_ _  
__And avoid speech_ _  
__Gathered on this beach of the tumid river_

 _Sightless, unless_ _  
__The eyes reappear_ _  
__As the perpetual star_ _  
__Multifoliate rose_ _  
__Of death's twilight kingdom_ _  
__The hope only_ _  
__Of empty men._

Tareq wraps up his spiel, gesturing to one of the henchmen behind Clay and everything suddenly goes dark around him as a black hood is pulled down over his head. For a split second, the dark is suffocating and Clay panics. The vulnerability of losing his sight is overwhelming, and it makes him irrationally anxious that he won’t even get to know _how_ he dies. Already bound, this feels like just a cruel and unnecessary assertion of just how helpless he is, how little control he has over what happens to him. 

But he forces himself not to fight as they tie the hood closed around his neck. (He wonders if this is it, if they’re just going to wait for him to suffocate – but no, they tie the hood loosely enough to still let in air.)

Only way out is through. 

Once the panic recedes enough to breath through, Clay is even a little thankful. There's a wave of freedom that comes with being able to finally drop the stoic face. There's a lightness in knowing he'll at least have the dignity of privacy as he dies, an unexpected grace. 

But mostly, there's disappointment at losing the feeling of the sun on his face, and the thought of never having that feeling again is almost enough to make him cry (he does, a little, but it’s okay because no one will ever see).

The first blow that lands is a boot to his gut that has him doubling over, gasping for air. Then a punch to his face. And something long and hard – metal, maybe – across his chest. 

He realizes almost detachedly, as if he’s watching it happen to a stranger, what’s happening. Clay tries to tell himself that it could have been worse, that there are worse ways to go out than getting beaten to death (there are better ways too, though). Reminds himself again that he’s almost through it, the hell of the last however many days or weeks is almost over. 

The only way out is through. Soon enough, this pain won’t matter.

And if these are his last conscious moments, he doesn’t want to think about dying or hurting.

 _Between the idea_ _  
__And the reality_ _  
__Between the motion_ _  
__And the act_ _  
__Falls the Shadow_

_For Thine is the Kingdom_

_Between the conception_ _  
__And the creation_ _  
__Between the emotion_ _  
__And the response_ _  
__Falls the Shadow_

_Life is very long_

_Between the desire_ _  
__And the spasm_ _  
__Between the potency_ _  
__And the existence_ _  
__Between the essence_ _  
__And the descent_ _  
__Falls the Shadow_

_For Thine is the Kingdom_

So for one last time, he forces his mind to wander. He thinks about his grandparents. About sitting under a starry night sky in Liberia while they took turns pointing out constellations to him. Of the sweet-smelling perfume his grandmother would use on special occasions, of the way his grandfather would get a glint in his eye when he was secretly amused by Clay’s latest shenanigan but had clearly been sent to deliver a scolding. Of the way they had cried when Clay had flown back to the States, and the way Clay had promised to visit but never got a chance before they passed. 

Clay, unlike Ray, has never been particularly religious. He’s never really thought about what he believes in, or if he believes in anything at all. Consequently, he hasn’t thought about what happens after death.

But now, Clay finds himself hoping that Ray is right. He hopes desperately that there’s something waiting for him on the other side, that it’s not just nothingness. He thinks maybe he should pray, but all he knows is a line he once heard from Ray that stuck with him – _pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death_. It feels apt, even if that’s all he can remember. Clay hopes that at the end of it all, maybe he’s done enough good to outweigh all the bad, to be deserving of peace and mercy if it’s out there. Because he’s hurt and helped and killed and loved and lost. 

No matter how much time passes, all the losses still hurt - his mom, the kids he’d befriended in Liberia who never made it to adulthood, the rookie on Team 3 who bled out just two feet away because Clay couldn’t get to him through the firefight, Brian, Adam, Swanny. 

His grandparents. 

His grandparents were all the family he knew growing up, the ones who had raised him. He loved them with everything in him. Even after all these years, the grief still feels raw. He still has moments where their absence feels like a gaping hole in his chest. 

Maybe getting to see them again would be worth all of this.

That’s the last thought he has before a blow to the head sends him into oblivion. It’s surprisingly anticlimactic. 

When they separate his head from his body, Clay doesn’t feel a thing.

 _This is the way the world ends_ _  
__Not with a bang but a whimper._

**Author's Note:**

> The poem in this is “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot.
> 
> Thanks for reading my first attempt at fic! This idea’s been in my head and would not leave me alone to actually get work done until it was typed out.


End file.
